Last dance.

A poem about love under siege.

they danced 
in a vacant hotel 
in the middle of 
what once was indianapolis 

its windows kicked out 
by falling fire 

in a matter of hours, 
the invading army
would swallow them whole, 
and the rest of the city 
like a tidal wave
 
and so they sought out 
one last moment of solace 
in this miracle still standing

they took refuge 
in an interior room 
on the highest floor

when they shouldered down the door, 
it was as if they were checking in 
for a long weekend stay

the bed was made, 
the bath towels: 
two swans kissing 
atop a pair of 
neatly folded bathrobes

there was a bottle of wine 
on the table, 
the mini fridge was stocked 
and the snacks untouched

they couldn’t believe their luck 
and for a moment they didn’t

she thought she was seeing
what was not there 
and left the room 
with her blackened hands 
clenching the sides of her face 

he followed her out 
and told her that 
if she had gone mad,
then he had gone mad too

and that they could be mad together
in their little room

he spun on the faucet 
and cold water ran out 

black and then brown 
and then clear 

they knew they could not drink it 
but they stopped up the drain 
and drew a bath 

the bath was cold, 
but they pretend it was warm

as they slipped in, 
one and then the other

they took turns 
running the small bar of soap 
over each other's skin 
and they were surprised 
by how gentle they could be 
when they weren’t surviving 

he grabbed for one of 
the miniature bottles of shampoo 
and lathered her hair 
and massaged her scalp 
and he could not see it, 
as her back was turned to him, 
but her face was a beautiful mess 
falling apart at the seams 

they dried off with the towels 
and slipped on their robes, 
they turned on their flashlights 
and placed them around the room, 
standing them up on their butts, 
their gaze paintings halos on the ceiling

eventually they made their way 
to the coffee table
and took their seats

together they made a small meal 
of the snacks in the wicker basket
and uncorked the bottle of wine 

it was cheap and sweet 
and they wondered 
silently to themselves 
if they would be alive in the morning 
to suffer the hangover 

they drank generously, 
pushing away the thought 

once they had their fill, 
they scanned the corners 
of the room 
like restaurant goers 
who’ve finished their meals, 
and are left waiting on the check 
with nothing more to talk about 

the man could see 
the sadness creeping in 
and so he unearthed 
his sony walkman
from his backpack 

it was ancient looking, 
but it worked 

she smiled up at him 
as he pushed her damp hair 
behind her ears 
and placed the foam headphones 
over her head 
as if it were a crown 

he stood her up, 
he held the walkman 
behind the small of her back 
and took her left hand into his own, 

he then hit play 

she closed her eyes 
as chet baker whispered in her ears
 
he left his open, 
staring at her 

together, 
in their bathrobes, 
they danced 
for what seemed like hours 
in their little room

and when the heavy footfalls of boots 
could be heard climbing 
the many flights of stairs, 
he turned the music up higher,
so she could not hear.

---

P.S. This poem is part of an album I wrote and produced called Pink House. If you’d like to listen to the spoken word version, you can do so here.